- An Old Man Carrying His Catheter Bag
- how the living
- The Truth, Nothing But
- After Katrina
- Saigon
An Old Man Carrying His Catheter Bag
white-haired vapor
in khakis
shuffling down a street
held it waist high
a flag
signaling the body
solid liquid gas
the body comes
to all three
I am bile
as I am wit
I drink to live in this body
See to it that you revere
this gold
this gold
how the living
with white crests bordering
each cuticle
cast higher
on either thumb
even with that light
folded into your darkroom body
so long practiced in fracture you
conceive a fumbling
white egged
headstrong
before the eyes settle
you bleat
hands cupped
ovals like feeders
speechless & shoveled
you are wood bent wet
. . .
. . .
before your ashes
measure against regret
that family-sized regret
toted from childhood
to your house warm with coffee
& nightclothes
as you settle in bed
copper to his hammer to hers
a Buddhist thing will happen
in the mouth layer
your fingers for Chopin
soldier on in music
The Truth, Nothing But
for Elvis
Little Richard was angry for years
He’d given up the Gospel
to somebody white and pretty
who kept begging in that sexy drawl
heavier
than a roll of quarters
Show me how to turn my bones
to brown sugar
I wanna be sweet
I wanna be sweet
After Katrina
There's no Sabbath in this house
Just work
The black of garbage bags
yellow-cinched throats opening
to gloved hands
Black tombs along the road now
proof she knew to cherish
the passing things
even those muted before the water came
before the mold's grotesquerie
and the wooden house choked on bones
My aunt wades through the wreckage failing
no matter how hard she tries
at letting go
I look on glad at her failing
her slow rites
fingering what she'd once been given to care for
The waistbands of her husband's briefs
elastic as memory
the blank stare of rotted drawers
their irises of folded linen still
smelling of soap and wood
and clean hands
Daylight through these silent windows
and I'm sure now Today is Sabbath
the work we do, prayer
I know what she releases into the garbage bags
shiny like wet skins of seals
beached on the shore of this house
Saigon
He masturbates me under
a clean white towel
I've come for the metaphor
above the entrance
Golden Smile
And isn't this why
we fought in Vietnam
the commerce between us
baby oil unifying skins
the opal of us shimmering
before my shot of silver later
the shower's steam thick
among locals and foreigners
satisfied with such extravagance
for so cheap
The dollar is strong
Currency of the weak
